"I can't," he answered sullenly.
"Why not?"
"Because I know for what you want it, sir."
Allard flung back his head and confronted the defiant face opposite with the fevered anger of his own.
"And if so, is it your affair? Have you, you who have led your life, grown sentimental? You, who know from where I come and to where I am going,—you will interfere? You are wasting our time; give me my revolver, and go."
But the other made no move, although sending an anxious glance through the doorway.
"One gets out of prison," he said obstinately, "as I've tried myself. But that that you mean—there's no coming back. You are over young for that, sir."
"You have been paid for helping me," Allard retorted, his voice savage with pain, "not for teaching me philosophy. Go take your liberty, if you can, and leave me mine. There is one door out for me, and one key. I trusted you; I might have kept the thing with me if I had imagined this."
Desmond flushed, but turned coolly.
"I'll go, it's time. If I was paid for helping, I gave the help. I never was paid for this you are asking."